


Linguini's Home for Wayward Ficlets

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:46:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 47
Words: 19,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3412901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of all the ficlets I've posted in response to prompts, challenges, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Everyone is trying to smuggle something aboard G-ERTI without the other crewmembers finding out?"

“Arthur,” Carolyn asked as she climbed the stairs and entered the cabin. “What did you just do?”

“Oh…er…hullo, Mum.” Arthur replied. “Fancy seeing you here. I mean, not that you’re fancy, just that it’s nice to see you. Not that you’re not fancy……Coffee?” He raised the carafe.

“My boy, you have to the count of one to tell me what you just put in that overhead bin.”

Arthur flushed to the roots of his hair and reached his hand in, pulling out a sizeable snake.

Carolyn glared at him. “You /know/ you’re not supposed to bring animals on board.”

“Yeah, Mum,” he said. “But I thought that was just between countries. It’s a British snake, so I thought it could stay here in Britain.”

“Arthur, light of my life. That is not just a customs rule; it’s a me rule. No animals on board GERTI unless in the hold and paid for by a client.”

Arthur opened his mouth, presumably to ask for clarification, but Carolyn held up her hand. “No. No questions. End of discussion.”

Arthur looked downtrodden, but left GERTI to release a very relieved snake back into the airfield where he’d found it. Carolyn snuck a peek into the bin to make sure there wasn’t anything else untoward. She expected to see the blankets and pillows that made up their meager supply of customer comforts. What she found was a small white mouse, blissfully chewing on a piece of cheese that didn’t look suspicious enough to belong to the normal cheese tray.

“Martin! Douglas! Get out here!”

The sounds of two pairs of feet, one nearly tripping over itself in haste to answer her bellow and the other somehow seeming to drip with insouciance. When they arrived, she pointed at the items.

“What in the name of all that is good in the world are these?”

Douglas smirked at her. “Why a mouse and a cheese, doing what mice and cheeses do naturally.”

“And how did they get on my plane, might I ask?”

Martin blushed. “I-I. That is, it was just a b—I mean a…I don’t know ask Douglas!”

Douglas smirked at him. “Well put. You see Carolyn, it all started with…”

“No! Never mind! I don’t want to know.” Carolyn put up an imperious hand. “Get them off my plane. Now!”

Douglas started to protest, but Martin, being Martin, complied immediately, capturing the mouse and the cheese and leaving the plane.

Carolyn glared at Douglas. “Whatever you’re up to, Douglas, I want it to stop.”

Douglas put his hand on his heart. “No more mice or cheeses. I promise.”

Carolyn gave him a look of disbelief and dismissed him to the flight deck. When Martin returned, Douglas gave him a once over.

“Everything alright, Captain?”

“Yes, yes. Quite. Are you sure this is going to work?”

Douglas smiled at him. “Of course it will. Now that she thinks she’s found everything, she’ll stop looking, and our _real_ cargo is safe from wandering eyes.”

Martin grimaced. “I hope it’s worth it.”

“Oh, it will be. I guarantee it. Getting Carolyn’s favorite whiskey direct from the distillery for her birthday is guaranteed to be a smash. In more ways than one.”

Martin sat in his chair. “Certainly better than a cigarette-y fish cake, I suppose.”

Douglas just grinned impossibly wider and said those words that were guaranteed to strike fear in Martin’s heart. “Oh, Captain. _Trust me._ "


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Richardson boys

They’re best of friends, the Richardson boys. They do everything together. When Douglas is born, Richard immediately takes a shine to him, promising to protect him and teach him all the things a big brother should. And he does.

It’s Richard, not their father, who trots along beside the bicycle once Douglas’s stabilizers come off. He’s the one Douglas runs to when he falls and skins his knee, when he has a bloody nose and a split lip from fighting in the schoolyard, when there are too many monsters under the bed. In Douglas’s eyes, Richard is a minor god, with sound advice, a sharp intellect, and lightning-quick reflexes. There’s nothing in his life that he wants more than to be like than his brother.

So when Richard finally goes off to Uni, seven-year-old Douglas is devastated. He’d always known it would happen someday, but it’s painful nonetheless. Richard wants to be accountant, and to do that, he explains, he needs a lot more maths and business classes. And besides, he’ll only be an hour away. 

Douglas can’t help but sniffle, even though he knows it makes him look like a baby. Richard doesn’t make fun of him, though—just pulls him into his lap for a cuddle.

“I promise to answer every letter you send me,” he says. “And I’ll call every week. But you have to be brave, alright?”

Douglas buries his face in Richard’s neck and nods, choking back a fresh wave of tears.

Richard gives him a quick squeeze and strokes his back. “Do you remember my address?”

Douglas recites it from memory, tracing the shapes of the letters on his brother’s shirt.

“Smart boy,” Richard says. “And what is the number one rule of the Richardson brotherhood?”

“Family first, brothers always.”

Another quick squeeze and then Richard stands up, flipping Douglas upside down over his shoulder and marching through the house as Douglas giggles helplessly. “Mum,” he calls. “I found a sack of potatoes for tea!” 

“I don’t know,” she says from the kitchen. “They sound quite a bit wriggly to me. Might be too hard to mash.”

Richard harumphs. “Well, how about if I just get them started for you,” he says, then starts tickling Douglas’s feet. Douglas giggles even more in spite of himself, wrapping his arms around Richard’s waist and clinging tightly. Richard doesn’t let him fall—he never has. Instead, he flips Douglas right-side-up again and tosses him onto the sofa, smothering him with cushions and blankets until the two of them are gasping, tousled messes, lounging on the floor in a semi-official truce. Douglas rests his head on Richard’s stomach in their familiar cloud-watching positions and contemplates the ceiling.

“Ratty,” he says. “Do you—” he trails off.

Richard looks down at him, trying to smooth down the more runaway bits of Douglas’s hair. “Do I what, Badge?”

“Do you think you’ll forget me?” Douglas asks quietly.

“Oh, Badger,” Richard breathes. “Of course not. How could I forget my favorite brother?”

Douglas is silent for a while, then clambers up so his chin is poking into Richard’s chest and his feet are resting on his shins, brow furrowed in thought. “Aren’t I your only brother?” he asks.

“As far as I know.”

“Then…aren’t I also your _least_ favorite brother?”

Richard starts to laugh, until he notices that Douglas looks a bit hurt, though he tries to hide it. “Oh, Badger,” he says again. “Don’t be such a pessimist. You’re the best brother I could have asked for…even if you steal my socks.”

Douglas immediately looks indignant. “How could I steal your socks?! They’d never fit! I could cut holes in them and they could be my jumpers!”

Richard laughs and gives him another long hug before sitting up and setting Douglas on his feet. “Alright, alright. I take it back. You’re not a sock thief. Come on, let’s go help Mum.”

Douglas nods and runs off to wash his hands while Richard saunters into the kitchen. Their mother is there, stirring something in a pot. She gives him a swat when he reaches over her shoulder to swipe a spoonful, but Richard just grins cheekily at her, unapologetic.

She gives him a peck on the cheek. “You’re a good boy, Dickie. Your father would be proud.”

Richard flushes a bit, but is rescued by the arrival of a Douglas at warp speed. “Ready,” he announces, already scraping a chair across the floor to stand on and watch their mother. Richard hands him the spices she directs, smiling at Douglas’s precision in the amount he adds. He tastes every one as it goes in the pot, since none of the containers have labels—part of their mother’s never-ending home economics lessons.

Dinner is a lively affair, as it always is, and before he knows it, Douglas has done his hour on the piano, had a bath, and is snug in bed. Richard comes in just as he’s starting to get impatient, “Wind in the Willows” already in hand. “Ready, Badge?” he asks.

Douglas nods and scoots over so there’s enough room for both of them, though just barely. Once Richard’s situated, he rests his head on his thigh so he can see the pictures, making Richard stop so he can see the words he doesn’t already know the shape of. It’s not long before Douglas snuffles off to sleep, leaving the tiniest patch of drool on his brother’s pyjama bottoms. Richard doesn’t mind—it’s his last night with his brother before he’s off to Uni, and he spends the whole time sitting up in Douglas’s bed until he eventually falls asleep himself. It’s not the most comfortable position, and he’s sure he’ll pay for in the morning. But for now, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas writes a sonnet to sushi.

I struggle with words that won’t leave my pen  
To say from my heart how I feel for this dish,  
That, purchased abroad for just a few yen,  
Is comprised of some rice, and quite succulent fish.

I could start with the color, it’s easy enough  
Or perhaps the fine taste of the salmon or roe  
And how, made correctly, the chewing’s not tough  
But a sensual delight, like well-made escargot.

I could write rhapsodies to the care that they take  
To be sure that each piece is created just so  
And is placed with an aim precisely on plates,  
As if ‘twere a gift, and the seaweed, a bow.

But I won’t for I find myself fully bewitched  
By the unagi now caught in my set of chopsticks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this work by mxdp.

Douglas walks him to his room, hands shoved in his pockets in his usual insouciant slouch. Only Martin notices the lines of fatigue that arc across his shoulders, the tightness of the muscle under his ear. The rakish grin is nearly the same, just a bit lower than usual. Martin slides his key into the door, nudging it open with a swift hip-check and turning to face Douglas.

“Good night, mon Capitaine,” Douglas drawls, resting his hands on the walls either side of the door (but not before a surreptitious sweep for cockroaches).

Something about the way his fringe falls over his forehead, or the tilt of his head, or the positioning of his hands looks indescribably exhausted to Martin, Before Douglas can say any more, Martin cups his face in his hands and gives him a slow, tender kiss. Douglas looks a bit surprised, but then his grin softens into something more private.

Without repositioning his hands, Martin brushes a thumb over the bags under Douglas’s right eye. “Get some sleep,” he says softly, and gives him another chaste kiss before shutting the door and retreating to his own room.


	5. Laundry Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a challenge set by Random_Nexus.

It’s late July, on one of those kinds of days that’s become Douglas’s favorite. Miriam’s scheduled to be gone until early evening and has left him with a list of things to do before she gets home. It’s not long, just things they’ve been meaning to do for a while, and he and Emily blow through it pretty quickly. Not that he minds the list, for an excuse to spend the day alone with this daughter.

They’ve finished all but the last item, and he’s just putting the last of the groceries away when Emily comes racing in, sliding across the linoleum on her socks. 

“Look, Daddy,” she says. “Is it good?” 

Douglas looks over his shoulder to where she’s standing for inspection, a pair of holey jeans and a t-shirt already spackled with paint. Her socks are mismatched and she’s managed to wrap one of Miriam’s silk scarves over her hair to protect it from paint.

“You look absolutely ravishing, darling,” he tells her, not quite able to keep the fond smile off his lips. “But I don’t think your mother would appreciate you using one of her good scarves like that.” He unwraps it gently and sets it aside. “Now, have you gathered all our supplies?”

“Yup,” she chirps. “Paint, rollers, paint tray, plastic sheet, brushes, tape, and Jaffa cakes.”

“Jaffa cakes?” he asks.

“For when we get hungry,” she tells him, very seriously.

“Ah, yes. I see. How did I not think of them? It’s a good thing you’re the foreman.”

Emily’s eyebrows scrunch together. “How come I’m the foreman and not the forewoman?”

Douglas grins at her. “You can be the forewoman, if you like.”

“Good,” she says. “Then you can be the foreman.”

Douglas throws off a jaunty salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. “What shall we do first?”

She ponders the items in front of her. “Taping?”

“Good choice. Now, since we’re only doing the one wall, we don’t need a lot of tape. Just around the skirting board and the door, yeah?”

“I can do it!” And she’s off like a shot. Douglas leaves her to it, stirring the paint. The shade of green Miriam’s chosen reminds him every bit of a sanitorium, and not at all of a sitting room. But, as part of one of the long-since-adjudicated agreements in their relationship, she’s in charge of decorating schemes—he’s merely the financier and executor of her will.

While he works, he watches Emily taping, smiling softly to himself when her tongue peeks out from between her teeth, a sign of deep concentration. Not that it helps her, as the tape is decidedly wonky anyway. Once the paint is ready, he comes to help, taping the sides and top of the door quite easily. He pretends to be unsure of his work, though, for the chance to set her on his shoulders to do a “quality check.” She judges it “adequate,” which is not a word he thinks a five-year-old should know, let alone use on their father. The disagreement turns into an impromptu tickle fight until he lies spread out on the floor, gasping for mercy.

“Alright, layabout,” she tells him sternly, standing with a foot on either side of his neck. “Come on, we haven’t all day.”

“Layabout?” he says with mild affront. “Would a layabout do…this?” He surges up, snagging her around the waist and standing in one fluid motion, flipping her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Let me down,” she protests between giggles. “I want to help!”

“Oh, now you want to help?” he asks. “Mmhmm. I see. Well, then.” He flips her over and sets her gently on her feet. “Alright, Madame Forewoman. Small brush. Hop to.” She rushes to obey, and he sets about showing her how to paint around the fixtures carefully, cleaning them as she goes. Once she’s solidly engrossed in her tasks, he starts on the rest of the wall, cutting in and then doing the body of the wall with the ease borne of long practice. 

Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long for the wall to be finished and the supplies put away. Douglas turns from setting the last of the brushes to dry to assess her cleanliness. “Not bad,” he tells her, thumbing a bit of paint off her cheek. “Not clean, but not bad. But I think a bath is in order.” He scoops her up and carries her up the stairs, setting her down in the bathroom. “Strip and get in,” he instructs as he sets the bathwater running.

After a quick scrub-down, he starts on her hair, laughing when she spits water into the air as she surfaces, “like a whale, Daddy.” 

“Alright, Moby Emily. Head forward and close your eyes.” With a gentle hand, he massages the shampoo into her hair, then cups his hand under her fringe and fills the plastic beaker from the side of the tub with water. “Rinse now, you ready?” He waits until her shoulders unhunch from around her ears and she gives the tiniest of nods before he pours it over her hair. Emily’s clamped her hands over her ears for protection and has her eyes squeezed as tightly as they’ll go. 

When he’s finished, he rests his broad hand on her back and rubs soothingly. “All done, love. You can surface now.” As she stands up, he wraps her in a towel, tucking the end in securely and sends her to get dressed, heading for a shower of his own.

By the time he’s made it out, dressed and still slightly damp, Emily has bundled their paint-covered clothes into the washer and is stood there in deep thought, evidently trying to work out the controls.

“I can’t figure it out,” she tells him, matter-of-factly. “I don’t know the words.”

He smiles and crouches beside her. “Well, this one says whites, and this one colors. The one that starts with a D is for delicates. Which do you think we should use?”

She ponders for a minute. “Well, your shirt was red, and mine was blue. And both of our trousers were blue, too. But your shirt had some white and your socks are white. Can’t you pick both? Do the color one then the white one?”

“You can,” Douglas says, “but the reason you do them apart is because the colors sometimes turn the whites not-white. Luckily, I happen to know that these clothes are magical and won’t do that, so you can put them on the color cycle.” He watches as she struggles with the selector for a minute, but she eventually manages. “Now, before you pull it out, how much soap did you put in?”

She turns to him with wide eyes. “I have to put soap in?”

He bites off his grin. “Yes, it’s right there. But, you shouldn’t do it without your mother or me around, alright? If you put too much, you might break the machine.” 

Emily nods, looking very serious. “How much do I put in?”

“This much,” he says measuring it out and letting her put it in.

She starts the washer and they stand there watching for a bit before she latches onto his arm and declares she’s bored.

“Well, we’ve finished our honey-do list for the day,” he says. “How about a puzzle?”

With a joyous shout, she runs to her room, returning with an unopened dinosaur puzzle. They spend the time waiting for the machine to stop putting it together, though they only manage to get half of the edge done by the time the washer stops. Douglas sends Emily for a basket, then stoops to let her climb on his shoulders. She manages to put the clothes out on the line with only the minimum of help from him to hold them, then uses her vantage point to spur him on a mock steeplechase around the garden. “Faster,” she shouts, laughing and clinging to him until the afternoon heat saps their energy and they’re forced to lie on the grass under the shade of the tree.

Douglas throws his arm over his eyes to block out the sun, and so it unprepared for the thump of her head on his stomach. They lie there in silence for a while, the hum of bees and the neighbor’s trickling fountain the only sounds.

“Daddy,” Emily says eventually, excitement in her voice. “That cloud looks like a plane!”

Douglas blinks his eyes open and looks where she’s pointing. “Hmm. I think you’re right. Or a whale.”

She points to another. “And that one’s a crab.”

He’s not as certain, but is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. With a hum, he finds another. “That one’s a dragon with an egg.” She laughs, delighted.

They stay there for a while until the heat becomes too much. He goads her inside with the promise of an ice lolly, and they return to the puzzle. Once they reach a stopping point, Douglas takes her back outside, riding on his back again, and they take the washing off the line. The clothes are warm and smell good, and Emily insists they make a nest out of them before they fold them, curling up underneath several of his work shirts. The pleading look on her face is not one he’s ever been able to deny her, and he obliges, shaping the jeans and t-shirts into a nest of his own.

With a contented snuffle, Emily sidles closer to him, resting her arm on his chest and her hand over his heart. And there, lulled by the heat of the washing and the rise and fall of his breathing, she drifts off. Douglas smiles softly and lets his eyes slide shut, letting himself drift off as well.

He’s not sure what time it is when he wakes up—late enough for MIriam to have arrived home. She strokes his cheek with her thumb, looking over the two of them with a fond smile.

“Hello,” she says, and gives him a kiss. “Good day?”

“The best,” he says, feeling a smile cross his lips unbidden.

She raises her eyebrows at him and slides her hand up his cheek and through his fringe. “Oh?” she asks. “What have you two been up to?”

“Not much,” he tells her, looking down at where Emily’s leaving a wet spot on his shirt. “Just laundry day.” And he closes his eyes, content.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Douglas wins Fitton Airfield's costume contest."

It was worth it, Douglas thought, as he headed to the front of Carl and Jane’s sitting room to accept his prize—the hours of preparation, making sure every bit of the costume he wore to the annual fancy dress party was perfect. He had won, in a costume no one expected. And if 90 percent of the reason he’d chosen that particular floor-length gown with the slit cut that particular way was to see Martin’s eyes widen a fraction and the tip of his tongue appear to wet his lips when he entered the room, that was really no one’s business, now was it?


	7. Home

One of the most dangerous things about having a mind as creative and agile as Douglas Richardson’s is its tendency to devise terrible, fanciful scenarios out of nothing at all. Which is how, on a Tuesday evening of no particular import, Douglas finds himself the victim of his third night in a row of nightmares. The content of each is different, but the theme is the same—some way, some how, Douglas fails, and its those around him whom he holds most dear who suffer for it, while he’s forced to watch, helpless and impotent.

“Douglas,” he hears Martin say, though his voice sounds far off and encased in amber. “Douglas, wake up.” When he finally does, it’s with a gasp, which a vast portion of his still-asleep mind expects to be water. It takes a long while for his surroundings to register—the plush bed, the sound of the faucet dripping in the next room, the warmth of Martin’s thigh pressed against his—but when they do, he drops his forehead onto his knees and is painfully, stubbornly silent.

Martin rubs a hand along his shoulders once, then leaves it there—a spot of warmth on Douglas’s otherwise freezing skin. “Again?” he asks, rhetorically. 

Douglas says nothing, doesn’t move, and the room is silent for a long while.

Finally, Martin takes a breath, and Douglas can practically _hear_ him biting his lip. “i know…I know you said you didn’t want to, but maybe you should think about taking something. Just for one night, so you can get some sleep.”

“No,” Douglas says, with the kind of finality only fathers possess. “I’ve never needed them before, and I certainly don’t now.”

Martin’s chin takes on a defiant jut. “You need to sleep, Douglas. You can’t just ignore what’s happening. You can’t magic it away.”

“What I need,” Douglas growls as he stands up from the bed, “is for you to stop hounding me. I’m fine.” He leaves. Not long after, Martin hears the sounds of the piano striking up, something soft and sad, in a minor key. With a sigh, Martin turns back to the pillow, burrowing under the duvet. No sense in neither of them getting any sleep.

When he wakes up in the morning, it’s to the smell of coffee and the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. Martin yawns and stretches, then throws on one of Douglas’s jumpers against the chill and makes his way out. He finds Douglas standing there, back to the doorway, doing something complicated with eggs. There’s a plate of food and a mug of still-steaming coffee in his place—a silent apology. Martin takes it in the spirit in which it was intended and digs in once Douglas joins him. Breakfast passes that way, quietly, and Martin decides it’s in the best interests of the fragile peace they’ve cultivated for them to spend the day apart.

It’s well after lunch before he makes it home, and the house is oddly silent. Douglas has a habit of keeping music on any chance he gets, and the stillness is disquieting. Martin’s fears are allayed, however, when he makes it to the sitting room and finds Douglas there, fast asleep in his overstuffed easy chair, feet propped up on the ottoman and a copy of Radio Times covering his chest. One hand is loosely clasped around a mug of what smells like very strong coffee and the other is propping up his head. His reading glasses, rarely seen when Martin’s around, perch precariously on Douglas’s nose.

Martin takes the opportunity presented to him and makes sure he snaps a picture on his phone before he carefully, cautiously creeps over. He holds his breath as he takes the mug out of Douglas’s grasp and plucks his reading glasses off his nose, folding them up and sliding them into his pocket. Tossing the grey throw from the back of the sofa over him gives Douglas a grandfatherly look, and Martin barely represses a smile. He putters around the house a bit longer, putting away groceries and doing the washing up before flopping on the sofa with a well-worn novel, carefully positioned so he see Douglas from across the room.

For the rest of the afternoon, they stay that way, the cold December light filtering in through the windows, sounds of the outside world muffled through brick walls, and the two of them as they always are—together.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For this drawing done by hollyashes on Tumblr.

"Mar _tin_.”  
  
"Stop.  Just stop," Martin said, tugging him back into position.  "It will help, I promise."  
  
"I don’t _need_ help.”  But Douglas didn’t protest too much before lying back down with his head in Martin’s lap, long legs bent to keep him on the sofa. He was almost immediately betrayed by his red-rimmed eyes slipping shut at the first gentle sweep of Martin’s fingers against his scalp.  
  
"Right.  Of course not.  Shall we poll the audience, though, just to be sure?  Because I’m almost positive Carolyn about had a heart attack when she found you doing your log book for the first time in….well history, I suppose.  And the three empty boxes of facial tissue, eight packs of throat sweets you left in  _my_ flight bag, and four decongestants you took as soon as we were on stand denote a perfectly healthy Douglas Richardson.  You’re the peak of wellness you are.”  A bit of a pause as he reached up to shut off the lamp over the sofa.  “Even _Arthur_ started to suspect, you know—somewhere around the eighth cuppa.”  Even as he talked, he kept his fingers carding through Douglas’s hair, massaging gently behind his ears and the back of his neck before starting again.  
  
Douglas sighed, a deeply put-upon sound only magnified by the congestion is his chest and the rasp of his throat, but he didn’t move and he didn’t argue. Martin felt his worry spike.  With a frown, he pressed his hand against Douglas’s forehead, just for the briefest second—not that he needed any longer than that to add ‘fever’ to the growing list of symptoms.  
  
 _Bed_ he thought to himself, and tried to come up with a way to move the 14 stone of miserable snifflyness off his lap.  He didn’t get there fast enough.  With another sigh, Douglas reached up and curled his fingers around Martin’s wrist sleepily, as much an apology or thanks as he was likely to get.  They sat like that for a long moment, the only thing moving Martin’s fingers on their unerring courses through Douglas’s hair.  
  
Douglas gave a cough that rumbled his chest and curled onto his side, face pressed against Martin’s stomach.  He guided the hand he was holding to cover his eyes, worked himself further into the cushions, and slipped off to sleep—free to let down the image of capability he had worked so hard to maintain for so many days for the first time since they left for Palau.  Martin bent his head, pressed a kiss to his hot temple and settled in.  _I’m here,_ he thought at Douglas.  _I love you and I’m here and you’re fine. Everything will be alright._

And it was.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "pudding pops, snap peas, Worcestershire sauce"

"Snap peas, for a start," Herc said as he dug through the cabinet for biscuits to go with their tea, "—as well as cucumbers, tomatoes, courgettes, aubergines—you know, all the good things in life."

Carolyn huffed, reaching over him to move aside the Worcestshire sauce to reveal the house’s last package of Hobnobs and snagged them for herself. “You know I have neither the time nor inclination for gardens; they’re about as useful as a self-licking version of one of those pudding lollies Arthur makes.”

"Then it’ll be a good thing to have an excellent gardener on hand, won’t it."

A short pause, and a voice a smidgen softer than normal. “Won’t it just.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Martin/Douglas, string, sleep, cockroach"

"Martin," Douglas moaned as he shuddered with fever, glassy eyes fixed on the corner. "The cockroach is watching me."

Martin dropped his head to Douglas’s shoulder, feeling the last thin string of patience and sanity slip from his grasp. “Douglas, please, go to sleep,” he begged, pressing the cool cloth to cheekbones slashed bright red and temples damp with sweat. 

But the fever raged on.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the three-sentence prompt: "Martin/Douglas, wolf, baby, plushie"

"For God’s sake, Douglas," Martin said as he wandered into the nursery, a duck plushie in his hands. "You’ve had children of your own; you’d think this ‘Watching a baby thing’ would be old hat to you. Instead, you’re acting like…like a mother wolf protecting her cubs."

Douglas glared at him and just kept rubbing gently at the tiny back under his hand. “While I take no pride in admitting that I have as little idea how this happened as you do, I am deeply, fervently sure of one thing: No one deserves a second chance at a proper father more than Arthur, and I intend to give him one.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the three-sentence prompt: "Martin/Douglas, Jurassic Park, blue, shoes"

"Hello, Emily," Martin said as he opened the door to let Douglas’s daughter in. "I like your shoes."

"Do you really?" she asked, twirling around in place so he could see the blue lights in the heel flash on and off. "Richard got them for me special for my school trip; he’s coming with us and we’re going to have so much fun and it’s going to be so awesome and I can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait!"

And in a flash, Douglas’s week-long desperation to acquire a copy of “Jurassic Park,” a tub of toffee ice cream, and enough hot chocolate to fill a swimming pool became heart-breakingly understandable.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "MJN throws a surprise birthday party for one of their own"

The sound of shuffling feet, and muffled laughter, then a hissed “Arthur, shhhhh!”

“‘snot me,” he protested softly, and the quiet giggling at his side gave him the tiniest bit of an alibi but they eventually worked themselves into silence and the room fell into an expectant hush.

It wasn’t much longer before Douglas stepped through the door and flicked on the light, stopping in shock as the room erupted in “Surprise” from every corner. He grinned automatically, even if he looked a bit—to Martin’s practiced Douglas-watching eye—shocked and bent to pick up Emily as she ran across the room to hug him.

"Do you like it?" she asked as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Were you surprised? You always said family is the most important on your birthday."

"I did, didn’t I?" he said, and his smile turned softer, but simultaneously more genuine as he looked at his family over her head. "And look how right I was."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How did Douglas deal with Emily's first loose/lost tooth?"

Emily was, in true Richardson fashion, the first in her year to lose a tooth. “Look!” she cried as she ran up to Douglas on one of their weekends, and she pushed at it with her tongue so it popped out of place—it was barely hanging on now. “It’s so close!”

"So I see," he said, managing to hide the shudder of revulsion he felt. Missing teeth were a secret hidden weakness of his, a fact made no easier by her taking every opportunity to poke, prod, and pull at it, until it came out in a piece of pita she was eating as they sat by the pier. "Dad, Dad, Dad! It’s out!" And she held out her bloody prize with a gap-toothed grin.

He ruffled her hair and bent to press their foreheads together. “Excellent, because now I can show you something I’ve been waiting a long time for.” He took her to the smoothie shop and explained everything to the woman behind the counter, who gave Emily a big smile. But it was nothing compared to the smile Emily had when Douglas showed her how to fit the straw in the gap her tooth had left—and nothing yet against the one when he taught her how to whistle through it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Yellow taxis don't count.

"Yellow car."

"A muzzle."

"Alright," Douglas said. "Not inventive, but effective." He thought a moment. "An everlasting gobstopper."

Martin grinned. ”Really sticky bubble gum.”

"Yellow car," Arthur said. "Oh! And another, oh! another. Oh, and four more! Wow, New York is really the best place to play yellow car, isn’t it?"

"No, Arthur," Douglas said as their own taxi deposited them at the hotel. "It’s the absolute worst place to play.”

Arthur deflated a bit at Douglas’s tone, but brightened. “But look! It’s a whole group of yellow cars. Or…a herd? A flock? Douglas? What do you call a group of yellow cars?”

“A migraine,” Martin said.

“Oh. Well, we’ve had a whole migraine of them on the way over.” A pause. “D’you think they’re named the same as the headache, or the headache is named after them?”

“I think,” Douglas said as he handed over Carolyn’s card, “That had the discoverer of the migraine not been involved in the world’s most juvenile game, it was a near thing. Perhaps ‘yellow chariot.’” And he left Arthur to ponder that. “In any case, Arthur, you’ve been playing it wrong.”

Arthur looked immediately worried. “Have I?”

“Yes. I have consulted the foremost authority on yellow car, and I’m sorry to inform you that yellow taxis don’t count.”

“Don’t they, though?” Martin said, and immediately regretted it when Douglas turned a baleful eye on him.

“No, Martin, they don’t, and I’ll tell you why. Arthur, when I say “Fetch me a taxi,” what do you do?”

“I stand at the pavement and I whistle, like you taught me.”

“Exactly. And does just any yellow car stop?”

Arthur pondered. “No. Just the ones that say taxi.”

“Right, which means taxis are special. Now, if I said that I was taking you on a drive, and I was taking you in my car, and it was yellow, the picture that comes in your head isn’t a taxi, is it? Because if I’d meant taxi, I’d have said ‘taxi,’ now wouldn’t I?”

Arthur nodded, guided by Douglas nodding first.

“So, we can conclude from this that taxis and yellow cars are two completely different categories of vehicles, and thus taxis, though yellow, cannot be included in a game of yellow car. Were you playing ‘yellow taxi,’ you could. But you’re not playing yellow taxi, are you Arthur?”

“No.”

“Right. So, in summary: Yellow taxis count for yellow taxi and not yellow car. Alright?”

“Alright.” A pause. “Do you chaps fancy a game of yellow taxi?”

In unison, two pillows hit him square in the face, followed by a rousing chorus of “NO!”


	16. BBQ

“Daaaaaad,” Emily said as she came out from the conservatory carrying the box of matches. “Tell Martin that I can light the grill and I do it all the time.”

“Douuuuglassss,” Martin said, matching her tone perfectly. “Tell Emily that small people aren’t allowed to play with flames.”

She elbowed him, hard, and stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m not small! I’m almost twelve!”

“You are small,” he said, and hip-checked her back. “Practically tiny, even. I might need a microscope to see you.”

“Do I need to separate you two?” Douglas intoned from the end of the patio. “Because I am perfectly happy to.”

“No, Dad,” Emily mumbled, the same time Martin shook his head, though the jostling back and forth said the disagreement hadn’t quite ended.

“Besides,” Douglas continued. “Everyone knows the grill master lights the grill, and as I am the chef du jour, that pleasure is mine, now hand it over.” He held out his hand to Emily, waggling his fingers.

She did, but not without grumbling about it. Martin took his opportunity and nudged her arm a little and she pushed him back.

Douglas smiled at them. “Excellent. Now, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you two a hundred times, the key to a good cookout is timing.” He flipped the box over and pushed it open with his thumb. “Without that—”

_WHUMPH_

A soft spring snake sprung up in his face, and he shrieked and dropped the box. Martin and Emily collapsed behind him in gales of laughter. 

“What was that you were saying about timing?” Martin asked breathlessly.

Emily giggled some more. “Yeah, Dad. What was that?”

Douglas turned and glared. “You, two…”

Martin turned to Emily, eyebrows raised. “Can I treat you to lunch?”

She nodded and the two of them scarpered back into the house and up the stairs to the sound of Douglas’s bellowing, collapsing on her bed in fits of giggles


	17. A Modern Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Fitz, who asked for AUs. I picked "You have a million CDs, let me digitize them for you.”

“Shit,” a voice rumbled from upstairs as a box tumbled down, landing at Martin’s feet. The voice was followed quickly by a tall, dark-haired man dressed in dark jeans and a grey sweatshirt and looking impossibly, unfairly gorgeous in them. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair before looking at Martin as he bent to pick it up. “Thanks. Damn idiots can’t even stack one box on top of another properly.”

Martin gave a small, wry smile. “Glad I could help,” and he turned away as the other man started to stand. A loud clatter from behind him made him jump, and he turned around just in time to see the last of the CDs fall out of the bottom of the box.

His new neighbor gave out a wordless growl and pitched the cardboard remains down the next flight of stairs before bending to scoop up as many of the cases in his broad hands as he could. His face was dark as thunder, but when Martin knelt on the grotty carpet next to him and snagged some of the others, it cleared just a fraction. 

The covers of the CDs spanned quite a range of music—classical and jazz and a few old standards thrown in. But Martin lost track of all that, when the man’s fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist while they reached for more cases. A pleasurable shudder ran up his spine, and dark eyes met Martin’s with a spark of warmth in them, though neither said anything.

They managed to get all the CDs upstairs in one trip, though it required Martin balancing a stack carefully that he could barely see over. He followed the other man into his flat, making a scoffing noise at the precariously stacked boxes blocking the corridor and spilling in through the door.

“Thanks,” the man said again, giving Martin a look that was slightly soft as they set the discs on the table. He laced his hands together and stretched towards the ceiling, grunting as his spine cracked and giving Martin an excellent view of his navel, and, more interestingly, the trail of hair that led to the waistband of his pants. Probably lower, too, Martin’s traitorous mind suggested, and he felt his ears start to flame.

But he said nothing, just shrugged and licked his lips before nodding. Swallowing once, he finally managed “I could help with the rest….”and let that trail off.

The man looked at him a moment, letting his hands swing down by his sides before giving him a lovely smile. “That would be terrific of you. I would feed you after, of course.” His gaze strayed just a bit down Martin’s form and his smile grew even saucier as he stuck his hand out. “Perhaps we should meet formally, first, though. Douglas Richardson, owner of music.” He nodded towards the table.

Martin couldn’t help the laugh that escaped as he shook Douglas’s hand. “Martin Crieff, dweller of the 21st century.”

Douglas barked a laugh in return. “Good to know. Any particular reason to make that distinction?”

“Just no one has CDs anymore,” Martin said. “Don’t you have an iPod or something to put all that on?”

Something flashed across Douglas’s face, but it was gone too quickly for Martin to identify it. He turned and started digging through a box, tossing cables and cords onto the floor around it. “I’m sure I do somewhere,” he said and gave a triumphant “Ha,” pulling out a small box, still wrapped in the purchase plastic. He handed it to Martin. “Here you are, one iPod.”

Martin laughed and set it aside. “Lot of use you’ll get out of it in that.”

Douglas nodded his head towards the boxes and let his eyes slide over his body something less than surreptitiously as Martin bent to pick one up. “Am I to presume you know how to operate one of those music thingies?”

“Of course,” Martin said. “Anyone who can work a computer can. I’d be willing to show you if you liked.” He felt his ears flush again as he caught Douglas looking, and remembered the flex and play of muscles as Douglas had stretched. “I- I mean, if you can’t work a computer, that’s alright. Well, not alright, because it’s really quite simple, but…” He let himself get cut off.

Douglas laughed and grabbed a box of his own. “Martin,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll be plenty of time to work that out. In the meantime, that one goes into the bedroom. Let me show you where to put it, Modern Man.” And he walked past Martin, still carrying his box.

“Yours says ‘kitchen,’” Martin said helpfully. “Shouldn’t you—“ He was cut off again as Douglas turned and gave him a searingly flirtatious look.

“Like I said, Martin. All the time in the world.” Martin felt his whole face flush this time even as his trousers grew tighter as Douglas let his eyes stray southward, but he followed him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. And if Martin forgot exactly what century he was living in by the time several hours had passed, he didn’t exactly mind.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fitton groundcrew's reaction to everything that happened in Zurich

The bar at the Storm and Drizzle was open, and the drinks were flowing freely, but the atmosphere was anything but celebratory. Instead of the usual game of Skittles or being gathered around the telly watching the football match, the groundscrew—Karl, Dirk, George, Philip, and even Mark, who hasn’t even been fully indoctrinated into the airfield fraternity—were sitting around a rickety card table. 

“Do you remember,” Karl started as he opened the bottle of whiskey that once was reserved for a certain pompous First Officer, “The look on Douglas’s face when he thought we were out of this stuff?”

Dirk laughed and snagged the bottle of vodka from George and took a swig right from the bottle. “Tosser. Because heaven forbid he drink with us commoners.” Another swig. “Christ, this is good stuff. Where on earth did that tin-pot organization get it from?”

“Straight from Russia,” George said, and grabbed it back. “That one where The Captain landed on one engine, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Dirk groused. “How could I forget, with him telling it at every party since then. And every meeting. And every time you’re in the pisser with him. Best moment of his life, to hear him tell it. Until he met his ‘princess.’”

Phillip whacked Dirk upside the head. “Why you gotta say it like that? She’s a real princess, or didn’t you read the article. And even if you don’t miss Martin or Douglas, you must miss Arthur.”

“I miss his bringing tea out, yeah.” But the look that crossed his face for the briefest of seconds put to rest any doubts about how unphased he actually was by the departure of MJN. “And his mother. Now she was a shrewd dealer. Gave me a second chance, didn’t she?”

“And me,” Phillip said while Mark just nodded. 

Karl stood up and held out his glass. “To Fitton Airfield, home of the airline industry’s misfits.”

“Dramatic much?” Dirk mumbled, but filled a glass and held it up, touching it with everyone else’s before downing it in one go.

“Oh, go walk into a propeller,” Karl shot back and sipped at his glass—then nearly spit it out. “Bloody hell!” he gasped.

“Too strong for you?” Philip teased.

“No,” Karl said. “It’s…it’s sodding apple juice!”


	19. Fandot Creativity:  Banjos and Balloons

“Arthur,” Douglas’s voice drifts through the flight deck door. “If you don’t stop that incessant banjo playing in the next half a second, I swear to all that is holy I will strangle you with it.”

The banjo in question made a half-dejected sound as Arthur’s hands froze over the strings. “Sorry, Douglas,” he said, and if it sounded more subdued than his usual cheerful apologies, Douglas took no notice.

Martin, however, did. He also took notice of Douglas’s lack of notice and added it to the mental tally he’d been keeping, along with the tightness around the eyes, the ultra-straight line of his shoulders, the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the control column. “He’s only passing the time,” Martin says, aiming for gentleness and only making it as far as prodding. “And he’s much better than he was yesterday.” A pause. “Or the day before, or the day before that, or last wee—“

Douglas says nothing, just turns a baleful eye Martin’s way and glowers. Martin, sensing impending disaster, manages to stifle himself, content to appear to be studying the altimeters—unchanged since their arrival at 36,000 feet some fourteen hours ago.

The rest of the flight passes in stony silence, with nary a word game to be found. Douglas executes the landing with something closely resembling perfection, snapping switches viciously and being harder on the brakes than absolutely necessary. By the time they’ve completed the post-landing checks, Arthur is nowhere to be found. Martin is just quick enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of the microsecond of regret that flies across Douglas’s face before being replaced by the dark scowl he’s worn all day.

Martin spends the whole of the walk across the tarmac warring between admonishing Douglas to be more professional and self-preservation, with the result that he says nothing at all. It’s all for the best, though, as he’s just as shocked as Douglas when they walk through the door to the Portakabin.

“Surprise!” Come the shouts from around the room as the lights flicker on.

Douglas stands there looking absolutely gobsmacked for a moment, then recovers when Emily crashes into his legs. He picks her up automatically and presses a kiss to her cheek when she throws her arms around his neck.

“What… How….” He swallows and bats a stray balloon away from his face. “Arthur? How did you know it was my birthday?”

“Ah, Douglas,” Arthur says, adopting his best wise expression. “I’m afraid that would be completely against the spirit of a surprise.”


	20. Fandot Creativity:  "I see what you did there"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw for domestic abuse (emotional and verbal, though something gets thrown)

There was an aggravated shout, and the sound of glass shattering against the wall.  “How dare you?” a voice shaking with anger shouted.  “This is _my_ fault?!  _You’re_ the one who’s gone all the time, flying your _stupid_ aeroplane for _stupid_ Air England with that _stupid_ Dianne and _Cynthia_ andand and…”  A furious pause.  “And _Henry_ and _Herc_.  How is it _my_ fault that I had to look to someone else to provide what my _husband_ ,” and she spat the word ”Can’t?”  A long pause, then in a voice dripping with venom.  “Oh well done.”  Slow, sarcastic clapping.  “I see what you did there.  I see what your plan is.  Trying to make me look like the bad guy, huh?  Like _you’re_ the wronged party.  Well, I’ll tell you, _First Officer_ Richardson.  You’re not all that great a catch.  You think anyone but me would put up with the ridiculousness of being gone all the time?  With the sarcasm and the pomposity and the cowardice masquerading as aloofness?  You know where the door is.  Good luck.”

The sound of footsteps up the stairs, then the slamming of a bedroom door.  Emily held her breath and counted as high as she could twice before snagging Ursa and creeping down the stairs.  Her daddy was on his knees, still and silent.

“Daddy?” she asked quietly.  “Are you alright?”  
  
He blinked up at her as if from far away, then gave her one of his best smiles.  “I’m alright, kitten.  Don’t move, though, please?  Your mummy…dropped a glass, and I don’t want you to cut your feet.”  He swept the shards into a small pile and pushed as much into the dustpan as he could, doing his best to keep his breathing level.  When he’d finished, he picked her up and pulled her into a cuddle, stretching out on the sofa with her on his chest.  He rubbed at her back for a long, long moment, pressing his nose into her hair and breathing in deeply.

Emily buried her face in the lapel of his uniform and did her best not to cry.  Daddy always looked so unhappy when she cried, and she didn’t want to make him sad.  Not when he’d been gone for so long.  “Daddy?” she finally breathed, curling around Ursa more tightly and idly picking at a loose thread.  “Do you love Mummy?”

 Another long pause, though his hands never paused in their petting of her hair.  “God help me, kitten,” he said, voice stretched thin.  “I still do.”


	21. Fandot Creativity:  "I won't let go until you do."

“Douglas.”

Silence.

“Douglas.”

Silence.

“Douglas.”

Silence, even icier than before.

“Fine.” Martin huffed and turned back towards the windscreen. “If you want to fly in silence, that’s fine by me.” But not two minutes later, he tried again. “Good flying weather, isn’t it?” He didn’t get a response. For the next half hour, he tried every tactic he could think of to get Douglas to talk to him. He made comments about the trip, about previous airports, about how rugby was a ridiculous sport, how opera was worthless and Douglas’s paintings derivative. Nothing worked, and he grew frustrated enough that the jump of the muscle in Douglas’s cheek when a particular point scored home gave him a thrill of victory.

Finally, they landed in Bali, and Douglas was off the plane as quickly as humanly possible, leaving Martin the responsibility for post-landing procedures. He could hear Arthur calling “Douglas!” and the silence spread into the galley. Martin finished switching everything off and went to the tarmac to arrange ground services.

“Skip?” Arthur asked, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Is he still cross? Can’t you just apologize?”

“Apparently so,” Martin sighed as he signed the fuel request. He took the bag Arthur proffered and slung it over his shoulder, turning towards the terminal. “I don’t even understand why! I mean, it’s not like he’s forgotten he’s not a captain anymore. He takes every opportunity to rub it in my face that he used to be! How is it my fault he’s decided to be particularly prickly about it today? And then say…what he said about my flying? If anything, he’s the one who owes me an apology, not the other way around.”

Arthur said nothing for a while, looking at the ground with the look on his face that usually indicated he was working through some thorny problem. “Maybe,” he finally said slowly after they had made it through customs and were ducking into the waiting cab. “Maybe it’s like that dog with the bone in the river.”

“Arthur,” Martin said and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t give me one of your mangled fairy stories. I’m not sure I could take it right now.”

“But it’s not a fairy story,” Arthur protested. “It’s one of those ones where there’s a moray at the end.”

That gave Martin a moment’s pause. “You mean a moral? A moray is a kind of eel.”

“Yeah. That.” Arthur took a deep breath and launched into the telling. “Like that one with the dog who had the bone, and there was the other dog, and they both wanted the same bone, and jumped on it at the same time.” He adopted a squeaky voice, which just happened to sound like his Martin voice. “’Give it to me!” the one dog said.” His voice dropped to his Douglas voice. “’No! This is my bone. Get your own!’ and they fought like that for a long time until they decided to share it, ‘Let go!’ the one said ‘No, you let go!’ ‘I won’t let go until you do.’ And then the bone broke and they fell into the river and the water washed the bone away, and neither of them had any bone when they both could have had half a bone, but they were too stubborn to work together.” He looked seriously at Martin. “I don’t want you and Douglas to not have any bone. Please? Just let go.”

As usual, Arthur’s story was 99 parts ridiculousness, 1 part prescient, and Martin was left pondering it all the way to the hotel, where they found Douglas had already checked into the room. When they trudged up, they were surprised to find him still there.

“Arthur,” Douglas said, not taking his eyes away from Martin. “Can you leave us alone for a minute, please?”

Arthur nodded, and left as quietly as he knew how.

“Martin,” Douglas said.

“Douglas,” Martin replied.

A silence, then two voices mingled as one.

“I’m sorry!”


	22. Fandot Creativity:  Feathers

Martin Crieff considered himself no slouch in his knowledge of Douglas Richardsons.  After all, he sat next to the man in a space approximately the size of a sardine tin more than half the days of the month, and in an only marginally bigger Portakabin for another quarter.  So it surprised him that there was a habit that Douglas had that he didn’t notice.  Not until Arthur pointed it out.

They’d been talking about something—Martin couldn’t even really remember what, later—and Douglas had said “Light as a fiddle.”

Arthur paused, mouth halfway open, and gave him a curious look.  “Douglas,” he asked.  “Why don’t you know feather?”

Douglas’s look morphed into something matching Arthurs.  “Pardon?  Why don’t I know what?”

“Feather,” Arthur repeated.  “It’s meant to be ‘Light as a feather,’ not ‘Light as a fiddle.’  Fiddles are something else, not light.   I mean, fiddles are light, I think, they don’t look very heavy when the people are holding them in the orchestra, but I think they’re fit, not light.  It’s feathers that are light.  ‘Light as a feather.’”

“Of course it is,” Douglas said, and waved a hand at Arthur that said I’m really not interested in discussing this with you.  

“Then why don’t you say it?”

Douglas sighed.  “Fine.  Light as a feather.  Does that satisfy the Panel on Questioning Douglas’s Word Choice, led by Lord Arthur?”

Arthur recognized the signs of impending mockery, and ducked out of the flight deck, leaving Martin to spend the rest of the flight wondering the same thing.  Douglas almost never said idioms or common phrases right.  It was “The cat’s knees, the bee’s pyjamas,” and “A cat’s chance in hell,” and “Fit as a cello.”  In the end, Martin decided it was just one of those things Douglas did to show how much smarter he was than everyone else.

It wasn’t two months later before Martin found out the truth.

********

It was one of Emily’s rare visits during the school term.  She was sat at their dining room table late on a Friday evening doing her homework, Douglas reading from his Kindle and sipping at his tea across from her and Martin sprawled on the sofa reading the flight manual.  The quiet of the room was punctuated every so often by Emily’s requests for spellings.

“Determined?”

Five minutes later, “Obliterated?”

And two minutes after that, “Frustrate?”

Douglas spelled them easily and fluidly, and it wasn’t long before her work was done.  “Do you want to check it?” she asked him.

“Why don’t you give it to Martin?” he suggested.  He’d been trying to make sure Martin was included in more and more of their lives since he moved in.

Emily obliged and hopped down, giving her book to Martin, so sat up to read it.  He frowned at the page—the letters were mostly correct, but there were some places where he couldn’t even make out what she’d been trying to write.  Not at all what he remembered his books looking like at that age.  But he could see the look of hopeful expectation on her face, and didn’t have the heart to say anything.  “Do you want to read it to me?  I think I’ll get the nuance of it better that way.”

While she read her story about a flying dragon that only wanted the love of the handsome prince, Martin found his mind slotting bits of information together—the odd colored plastic sheet she had for her books, the mixed up b’s and d’s in the notes she’d left for them, her reluctance to read anything she hadn’t written to either of them—and by the end of the night, as he climbed into bed with Douglas, he had drawn a conclusion.

He spent a few minutes dithering about how to approach it, but finally decided direct was the best way.  “Douglas,” he said, carefully.  “Is Ems….does she have….is she dyslexic?”

Douglas sighed, looking more upset to Martin’s practiced eye than he would have thought a common problem would necessitate.  He turned on his side away from Martin and punched his pillow back into shape.  “She is,” he said finally, and there was too much wrapped up in that admission for Martin to untangle.

The silence settled over them, heavy and uncomfortable.  Finally, he just said, “Oh.  Explains some things,” and turned so they were back-to-back.

There were another few minutes of silence, then Douglas heaved a great sigh.  “More boys have it than girls, you know,” he said, and when Martin nodded, continued.  “So if she got it from someone…”  He let the thought trail off.

But Martin was already ahead of him, thinking of a First Officer who refused to do paperwork, or was more apt to do it wrong than not—which he’d attributed to revenge, or malice, or laziness, or conniving to get out of it.  He thought of a husband, whose texts were practically Internet worthy for their autocorrect mistakes.  Of a friend, who never left handwritten notes, just humorous drawings or cryptic doodles.  

And he finally understood.


	23. Fandot Creativity:  Risky Business

“I don’t know,” Martin was saying to Arthur as Douglas came in.  He shook off the rain from his coat and fluffled his hair a bit, letting it fall perfectly, as was its natural wont.  “It seems risky.”

Before Arthur could reply, Douglas piped up.  “What’s this?  Is Captain Straightlace considering something…slightly less than above board?”  
  
“No!” Martin protested defensively as he turned to stalk back to his seat.  “I’m not!  That’s what I was just telling Arthur.  And besides, it’s nothing illegal.  Not—Not like your bribing that girl in Spain!”  
  
“I’ve told you, Martin,” Douglas said, voice as smooth as glass, as he accepted his mug from Arthur.  “It wasn’t a bribe.  It was a birthday present.  But you’ve still not answered the question.  In what sort of risky business was our redoubtable steward attempting to gain your cooperation, hmmm?”  He paused, almost certainly for effect.  “Unless…”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “Oh, Martin.  Ain’t life grand?”

All he got for his troubles was a glare from a Martin who clearly felt he _should_ be offended without actually getting the reference, and an energetic nod from Arthur.  He sighed and flopped insouciantly in his chair and sipped his coffee.  “Go on then.  Spill.”

Arthur managed it before Martin.  “I was just telling Skip that one of us should probably go and wake Mum up, before the passengers get here, and Skip was saying something about not having his riot gear with him, though I’m a bit confused on that point because it wouldn’t be a riot with just Mum, even when she’s very cross.”  
  
Douglas held up his hand.  “Arthur, press pause on your monologue.”  He turned to Martin and said simply, “She’s asleep?”  
  
Martin nodded, leaning forward to whisper across the space between their desks.  “Proper asleep, arms folded, head down, everything.”  
  
The frown on Douglas’s face took on a concerned pitch.  “Hmmm.”  He drained his coffee and set the mug on his desk as he stood up.  “Gentlemen,” he said.  “I will go into the den and wake the sleeping dragon.”  And before either of them could say anything, he was slipping soundlessly through Carolyn’s door.

He shut the door silently behind him, then turned cautiously.  He was surprised to see Carolyn exactly as Martin and Arthur had described her, with a few additions.  The hair on the nape of her neck was damp with sweat and matted down, and she was shivering slightly, tiny tremors of things that wouldn’t have been noticed had she been up and moving.  Douglas frowned in thought, searching her office for something suitable, and when he found nothing, stripped off his jacket and draped his over her shoulders.  His concern grew when she didn’t move an inch, though it warred with the relief that she didn’t move an inch.

“Carolyn,” he said softly, resting his hand on her shoulder and shaking it gently.  She didn’t answer.  “Carolyn.”  Nothing.  “Lyn,” he finally said, letting his fingers drift to her cheek to check her temperature.  She was burning with fever, but she finally blinked open red-rimmed eyes and looked up at him.

  
“What do you want?” she said, voice hoarse and gravelly.

“Nothing much,” Douglas said smooth and calm as the sea after a storm.  “I just thought I would suggest that you might be more comfortable somewhere other than your desk.”  He settled his hand on her bicep and, without fuss, pulled her out of her chair and guided her to the sofa on the other side of the room.  Whatever concern he’d felt before was nothing compared to that he had when she said not a word, just let him move her how he liked, and settled on the sofa with his jacket still over her shoulders.  He reached over and shut off the light, settling near her shoulder to test her temperature again.  “Stay here,” he said gently, and didn’t resist the urge to trail soft fingers over her temple.  “I’ll handle everything.” 

Carolyn said nothing, just tumbled back to sleep, nose edging just the slightest bit closer to the collar of his jacket.

Douglas went back into the other room, face set in lines as serious as those he was met with.  “Martin,” he said quietly.  “Can you do the flight alone?  It’s just to Dusseldorf, and I know it’s technically outside the limits, but only by 15 minutes’ flight time.”  
  
He was surprised for the second time that day when Martin didn’t argue, just nodded briskly and left to do the walk round.  Douglas turned to Arthur, who was looking at Carolyn’s shut door with something approaching concern on his face.  “Arthur,” he said.  “You have to go on the flight.  The customers will need a steward.  I’ll stay here and take care of your mother, alright?”  When Arthur didn’t look convinced, clapped him on the shoulder and gave him his best confident look.  “When have I ever not followed through on a promise for you?”

 “Never,” Arthur said, and it seemed to give him a bit of buoyancy, which carried him through the introduction to the passengers and escorting them to Gertie.  Douglas watched them go with an odd mix of pride and fondness that he would never admit to, then turned to do one of the most dangerous things he’d ever done in his life—take care of an ailing Carolyn.  Armed with a mug of the strongest coffee he could make and his Kindle, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went once more into the breech.


	24. Fandot Creativity:  Bird Watching

_They were flying, doing something incredibly complex and acrobatic in a sleek fighter jet._

_“Hello, Captain,” purred one of the stewardesses as she handed him a cup of perfectly-brewed tea.  She ran her fingers through his hair, knocking his cap to the floor._

_He was lying on a beach, and she smiled at him before dropping a chaste kiss on his lips.  Before he could miss her, a different voice came from behind him.  “Douglas Richardson, I will strangle you where you stand.”  And Carolyn was there, dangling a pair of Captain’s stripes from her finger, a smirk on her lips and challenge in her eyes.  She stepped forward and wrapped the stripes around his wrists, and kept wrapping and wrapping and wrapping, until he was tied to the beach.  With a grin, she gave him a kiss and dove into the water, and the flap of her dorsal fin was the last thing he saw before a gorgeously appointed specimen of a man was sauntering over._

_“Excuse me,” he said.  “I can’t help but—“_

 “Dad!”  Emily’s voice jars him from his dreaming.  “Look, look, look!”  She was already pulling out her camera to take a picture.  “it’s a Baikal teal!”

 He rubs sleep from his eyes and oofs when she shoves her book into his stomach in her excitement.  “Look!  How pretty it is.”  And she’s digging in her pockets for a pencil to scribble down the details.

 “Darling,” Douglas says, and is about to explain how when he said he wanted to spend time with her he didn’t mean bird watching, but she turns to look at him, and the sparkle in her eyes and obvious excitement put paid to any protest he might make.  Without a sigh or a flinch, just waggles a hand.  “Is that a female?”

 And her attention is gone again, leaving him free to watch her with something rising in his chest that feels particularly like love.


	25. Fandot Creativity:  Nighty

Carolyn slumped down in her chair with an internal sigh, eyeing the box of tea that claimed—in sensible font overlaying a presumably soothing background, nonetheless—to relieve occasional sleeplessness. She huffed and thumped the box derisively, feeling an unaccountably large spike of satisfaction when it tipped over with a thunk.

Her eyes slipped shut as she breathed in the steam, willing herself to relax. But sleepiness wouldn’t come. Just like the last four nights she had tried. Carolyn’s patience, already not superb, was frayed thin, and she could feel herself bowing under the strain. She’d even snapped at Arthur, even though he hadn’t been doing anything particularly designed to annoy her.

It was no good pretending. Ever since their near miss in St Petersburg, and their subsequent victory over Gordon, her dreams had been filled with more narrow misses, or worse, actual disaster, of every type and variety her not-inconsiderable imagination could come up with. Eventually, she’d given a good night’s rest up as a lost cause, and relegated herself to the kitchen. No need for both of them to lose sleep.

As if summoned, a rich, velvet voice emerged from the darkness where the warmth of the light over the table couldn’t reach.

“Come to bed,” the voice said, and a pair of broad, strong hands came to rest on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing idly at knots of tension in her neck. “Please?”

She reached up and rested her hand over his, stilling them briefly with a squeeze before letting them drop on the table, exhaustion breeding an unusual sentimentality. Her head dropped as he kept working, stubborn to the last, and a tiny smile curled at the corner of her lips. This, at least, was stable—if nothing else about him was. 

With a final draining of her tea, she stood and turned towards him, letting her face show (if only for a fleeting moment) every inch of exhaustion she felt. She set her tea aside and allowed herself to be pulled into an embrace, though it was more for his desire to be helpful than her need for comfort—or so she made herself believe.

“Fine then,” he said after a while and released her to stand just the tiniest bit back. “At least come back to the bedroom. Keep me company?” And he matched it with a quick, easy grin.

Carolyn sighed and set her mug aside, then tilted her head just so. “Douglas Richardson,” she said, finally. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

With a cheekish grin, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and turned her down the hall. “Maybe so,” he said. “But can you blame me?”

If neither of them ended up getting any sleep that night, and if the duvet ended up a little worse for the wear for it, well… No complaints were heard.


	26. Fandot Creativity:  Duck, duck, goose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is really rough. In my defense, I spent the rest of the night ill.

“Duck, duck, goose.” A tiny hand patted Douglas’s head. When he didn’t move, there was a tiny pout. “Daaaaaaaady,” Emily whined. “I goosed you! You have to go!”

Douglas couldn’t manage to keep a straight face at that, and opened his eyes to find his daughter’s face inches from his. “Did you now,” he said and reached up to tickle her sides. “And why exactly have you goosed me and not your mother?”

She shrieked with laughter. “She’s… she’s in her readin’ room! The sign is up!” Her giggles continued while he crooked his fingers over her sides.

“Oh, is she now? Well done for listening to the sign, Ems.” He scooped her up in one big hug and stood. “What do you say we make something for her, then, hmmm?”

“Yay!” Emily clapped her hands together and cheered. The next half an hour were filled with glitter and paint and paper and stickers, until a very glittered Emily and a slightly less glittery Douglas were standing in Miriam’s office, three foot high card held between them and matching grins on their faces.

“Surprise!” they shouted, and Emily ran to give her mother a hug, followed by a slightly less chaste one from Douglas as he literally swept her off her feet.

Miriam smiled softly at him when he set her down, brushing at his fringe and grimacing when it wouldn’t move, stuck together with glue. “I think someone needs a shower,” she teased him. “Go on. We’ll order in dinner and then… What film do you want to watch, Emily?”

“Planes!” she shouted and ran into the sitting room to find it.

Douglas gave Miriam another kiss and ran up the stairs for a shower while Miriam followed Emily. The rest of the night was spent in a sugary, glittery, cuddly mess. And was perfect.


	27. Fandot Creativity:  The Power of Books

The day Martin finally moves into Douglas’s house is the first day he _really_ starts to notice things. The framed picture on the piano he’d always assumed was a portrait of Douglas and Emily is actually much older than that, black and white from necessity not asthetics. There’s a set of playing cards squirreled away in the drawer he intends to use for his socks. And, most intriguingly, he finds a set of three _very_ expensive anatomy books, leather bound with gild lettering, clearly quite old and valuable. Curiosity gets the better of him, and while Douglas is out procuring takeway, he pulls the first volume off the shelf. A scrap of paper falls out, fluttering gently to the ground before he can manage to pick it up. It’s a picture, with an inscription on the back.

It’s two boys, one of whom is very clearly Douglas, but the other isn’t anyone he recognizes. Martin’s met Geoff, Douglas’s brother, and he’s relatively sure it’s not him. The scrawled writing on the back says only “KP, 1973” in Douglas’s hand.

The door opens, and Martin hurriedly puts it back in the front cover, but stops when he reads the inscription there.

_D,_

_I thought you could use a set of your own, so you stop pinching mine._

_Let this book serve you well, and maybe, if you’re lucky,_

_open your mind to the near unfathomable and still_

_very real possibility that you, yes_

_even with your massive intellect and wise and superior ways_

_you with the silver tongue and butter wouldn’t melt eyes_

_obviously need a bit of studying to help_

_uncover the mysteries of the human body. All the best._

_K_

The look on Douglas’s face when he came in and saw Martin holding the books told him more than even his basic cryptology did. Martin felt only regret for the hurt that flashed through Douglas’s eyes—not at Martin’s actions, but at an older, deeper pain.

“They’re nice,” he said softly as he put the book back. “Look like they’re a good sort.”  
  
“The best,” Douglas said, voice a bit hoarse, eyes strangely soft and dark. And that was all that could be said.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for [this piece](http://mxdp.tumblr.com/post/59346914537/seems-to-me-everybody-really-needed-good-hugs) by mxdp.

The sound of the front door shutting wakes him up–attuned to his natural environment as his hearing has become, it’s inevitable.

Two soft thuds, and the sound of paper on wood. A slow shuffle to the kitchen, a cabinet, the sink, then a pause. The shuffling comes closer, and the door opens. 

The (illusionary) warmth of a shaft of light spilling from the hall. There’s a rustling of fabric for a few minutes, then anticipatory silience. To his left, the bed dips.

“Your eyes are open,” Martin says, voice light. 

“Ah,” Douglas says and concentrates for a moment.

“Better.” A weight drops across his stomach and he feels the rough warmth of Martin’s stubble brush against his cheek. He turns his head and inhales, searching for the tell-tale indicators under Martin’s usual airport-and-cockpit smell. A faint scent of tumeric and paprika, and a whiff salty, fruity smoke.

“Doha?” he asks.

Martin gives him a kiss. “I’ll never understand how you do that.”

Douglas reaches out, stroking his cheek. He feels a small thrill of satisfaction when his hand lands precisely where he meant it to–his aim is getting better.

“Years of practice and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the best pilot currently in the skies.” There’s not a trace of bitterness in his voice.

A silent, weighty pause. “Douglas…”

He swallows, hard. “Don’t. Just a comment.”

“Alright.” Another kiss and the weight of a head on his shoulder. 

He can feel the soft brush of hair under his chin as his arm automatically wraps around broad shoulders. He runs his hand up and down Martin’s spine, silently evaluating. “I might try ratatouille tomorrow, if you like. With some bread.”

Martin tilts his head and kisses under Douglas’s chin. “Just don’t burn yourself. I had to listen to you whine for nearly a fortnight last time.”

Douglas smiles and pulls him closer. “Aye, Captain.” Martin shifts his weight once, twice, then tucks his nose into the hollow of Douglas’s throat. Douglas waits until he can feel the soft breaths sneak under his shirt and cross his collarbone before he forces himself to open his eyes again.

It’s still there, the tiniest of changes in the blackness that’s been his constant companion for so long. _Probably just a trick of the mind,_ he tells himself. _My brain is convinced it’s still getting input._ But his traitorous heart won’t listen.

There, in the dark that’s darker than night, he listens to the sound of Martin breathing, feels the thud of Martin’s heart, smells the remnants of Martin’s flying. 

And he hopes.


	29. Fandot Creativity:  Asexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas is a good liar to everyone, even himself.

When he was 14, Douglas Richardson learned how to lie.

Well, to be fair, he’d been lying for years. He’d started with small, petty things, honing his craft on tales about Oliver’s blue pencil (which had really been red) and how he’d given it to Sophie (James) during maths (science) because he “loved” her (that part was true). But when he found himself in the cloakroom, pinned down by a question for which he had no answer, even though it seemed that everyone else did—even that swot Rhys, he made up a lie he could stick with.

“So, Richardson,” George Hammerly asked, nudging his side with an ungentle elbow. “Which of the girls would you bed then, hmm? If it’s not Megan, who?”

Douglas felt himself begin to panic, though he’d long since learned how to keep it hidden. He’d never thought of girls that way at all. He’d never thought of anyone that way. He looked at the girls’ half of the cloakroom and said the first thing that came to mind. “Sarah Maker, if you must know.”

“OoooOOOOooooh,” the boys around him cooed mockingly. 

“Of course you would,” George said, wrapping an arm around Douglas’s neck and pulling him into a headlock. “Tosser. You’ll be takin’ her to the spring do, then?”

Douglas tried to look offended that George even had to ask. “Of course. I was going to ask her today, in fact.” And then the worst possible thing happened—Sarah’s friends left, and she was alone in the cloakroom.

“Go on then, Dougie,” Henry called from the back of the crowd. “Now’s your chance. She’s gagging for it, look!”

And it was true. She did seem to have a cautiously hopeful look on her face, and her eyes slid over to where Douglas was standing more than once. Douglas took a deep, settling breath and, with the weight of the expectant gaze of the boys behind him, stepped into the abyss.

Weeks later, when the two of them were lying on her bed, her clearly more enthused than him, he started to get the first niggling feeling that something was wrong with him. Two years later, he was certain, and three years after that, in deep denial.

When he was 54, Douglas Richardson told a lie he’d been working on for the vast majority of his life.

“You know the start of the London Marathon?”


	30. Missed Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fandot creativity night prompt: Missed connections

“You know where I’ll be,” the woman said, pressing the key to her room into his palm. “I’m a night owl—you won’t wake me up.” And with that she left, leaving behind a trail of something sweet and delicate in the air. Douglas looked down at the polished wood of the hotel’s bar, feeling the familiar tug of too long spent alone in his gut.

But his mind was somewhere else, ages ago on a damp footpath between buildings.

“You know where I’ll be,” she’d said gently, leaving blue fingerprints on his jaw and his lips tingling. “If you want to find me. 4 sharp, don’t be late.”

It was true--he _had_ known. At the altar in front of the assembled dearly beloved, a vision in white and lace. He was there. He was ready. He knew what he’d do. But when the vicar had asked if anyone had anything to say, his mouth refused to work, legs locked and keeping him pressed against the hard wood of the chair as his traitorous heart cried out _Stop! It’s me! What about us?_

Forty years later, he’ll only remember that when she stepped out with Ian, he was left. Alone.

 


	31. Fandot Creativity:  Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the fandot creativity prompt: head.

As a man of what novels somewhat less than charmingly call “of an age,” Douglas Richardson is possessed of keen wit and razor-sharp reflexes. But after the fifth sixteen-hour flight in two weeks—just barely under the legal limit in letter if not intent—he finds those reflexes dulled and sloppy, which is probably why he makes the terrible decision to walk on the ice in the first place, and definitely why when he starts to fall, he doesn’t even have time to register that it’s going to hurt before his head connects with the pavement and the world descends into darkness.

The first thing to come back is his hearing. A wave of frustration crashes over him when he can’t manage to work his arm to bat away the insect that’s buzzing in his ear. But as it sharpens, he realizes it’s not an insect at all, but the frenzied amalgamation of Arthur’s worried chirping and Martin’s trying to take charge in a situation he’s unequipped for. Finally, after a small eternity, he blinks open gritty eyes to see Carolyn an inch from his face, sharp blue eyes peering into his own.

“What’s your name?” she asks immediately.

“D…” The word dies on his lips and he frowns, swallowing hard and trying again. “Douglas.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

He frowns, the cogs in his brain gummed down by some unnamable sludge. “The….” But nothing comes to him.

Her look sharpens. “Do you know where you are?”

“Fitton,” he says immediately, even though he has to extrapolate from having them near him.

She frowns. “You’re in Calgary,” she tells him. “It’s Tuesday, the 9th. Martin,” she snaps. “Go find out what’s holding up the ambulance.”

“Calgary?” he asks, forcing himself to sit up, which turns out to be a mistake as the world tilts sharply and he’s forced to lean against her for balance. “But….” He licks his lips again, a nervous gesture. “Lyn,” he says softly, so only she can hear. “What’s happened? How much did I drink? Did I hurt anyone?” 

The breath she draws in is sharp and pained, and he thinks for a moment he’s hurt her, but when he turns to look at her, he sees only worry and concern and a hundred other things that don’t fit on the lines of her face. In the next heartbeat, she’s smoothed them out. “You’re fine,” she promises. “You’ve not been drinking. Trust me.”

And in spite of the throbbing at his temples, the trickle of blood creeping along his hairline, the dizziness that hasn’t stopped, he does, leaning against her for support and letting her take his weight. She’s his oldest, dearest friend, and she’s never lied to him. As his vision greys out and the ringing in his ears takes over, he holds on to one bright, shining thought.

_Lyn will fix it._


	32. Fandot Creativity:  Sparks fly

In the end, it came down to luck. There had been a time when Martin had believed that a thorough SOP and a well-practiced crew could weather any adversity, including (he laughed a bit to himself at his cleverness), the weather. But the god of thunder and lightning cares not about the rituals of mere pilots, captain or not, and the lightning goes where it pleases

The first thing Martin heard in the millisecond after the crash of thunder and the clap of lightning was the klaxons blaring, warning bells and alarms ringing through the small cabin. The first thing he _saw,_ when his vision had lost the white spots in front of it, was the blackness of the storm they were flying in, and the altimeter indicating a terrifying loss of altitude.

“Douglas,” he croaked, then cleared his throat and settled his voice even as his hands instinctively wrapped around the control column and pulled with all his might. “Douglas!”  
  
But his First Officer said nothing, and the quick sidelong glance he managed showed the man slumped sideways in his seat, uniform still smoldering and the unmistakeable smell of smoke in the air. “Carolyn!” Martin shouted as he struggled to bring them level again. “Carolyn!”  
  
She came striding in, the tiny bit of stress already melting away beneath her cool competence. Habitually, her eyes swept the flight deck, resting on the limp form of her First Officer for slightly longer than usual. No one needed to tell her what to do, but Martin did anyway, even as she disappeared into the galley, returning with the fire blanket.   
  
“I think he’s on fire,” he gasped, reaching out and flicking the switch for the autopilot now that they were level. It was as fruitless as his explanation to Carolyn had been, and he re-settled his hands into position.

“Was, perhaps,” she replied, voice tight. “Not now.”

Before either of them could continue, a groan came from the right seat, and Douglas started to shift in place. “Wh—“ And then bolts of pain shot up his hands to his spine and he groaned, curling around himself.

“None of that,” Carolyn chided. “Arthur, first aid kit.”  
  
Martin didn’t spare them more than a glance, just reached for the radio and started their emergency descent. Carolyn said nothing, not even about the fact the nearest airport was well-known for having the most expensive landing fees, and would, at this point, mean the loss of their contracted passenger. Focusing on Douglas, she viciously shoved away thoughts of the future.

Until Douglas, delirious with pain and fear, uttered two words that made her heart sink and Martin suck in a sharp breath.

“My _hands_.”


	33. Fandot Creativity:  [Blue] Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was actually "full moon" but this is the first thing I thought of. It's a proper drabble, so there probably wont' be any more.

Douglas is a man of contradictions. At face value, he’s a man of secrets, but not of secrecy. His emotions are easy to pick out—anger sends his eyes flashing while joy loosens the lines of his face and adds a boyish slump to his shoulders. Music is the one place he’s most easily read—if you know the code. “Those Magnificent Men,” is the song of gentle apology; “That’s Amore,” a fond wish for happiness.

And the strains of “Blue Moon,” played in a minor key… That’s the sound of a Douglas lost on the sea of unending loneliness.


	34. Writing Workshop:  Carolyn's filing cabinet

“Carolyn,” Douglas complains as he snaps his hip into the filing cabinet in the office while simultaneously pulling up and out on the drawer—the only way to get it open. “When are you going to get a filing cabinet that actually works?”  
  
She comes in from her office, leaning against the doorjamb and smirking at him. “Aww. Is the poor little pilot outsmarted by an inanimate object?”  
  
Douglas glowers at her and tries again, to no avail.

“Here,” Arthur says, bounding across the room. “Let me help.” He wraps his hand where Douglas’s had been and does a peculiar wiggle-tug that has the drawer sliding out smoothly—up until it falls out completely, taking the front face of the cabinet with it. His face turns beet red as he turns to face his mother, the handle of the drawer dangling precariously from his fingers. “Oops, sorry.”  
  
Carolyn sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Fine. I’ll get another while you’re gone. Leave that here, Arthur. Shoo.” Her boys follow her instruction, and she can hear Douglas clapping Arthur on the back and trying to cheer him up.

True to her word, she goes out while they’re gone and comes back with a flat pack for a reasonable price, which she assembles easily. The papers are scattered on the floor in the space between Martin’s and Douglas’s desks. As she bends to pick them up, a splash of color catches her eye. She tugs at the corner and unearths a drawing from Arthur, aged 5 (if she’s deciphering the scrawl at the bottom of the sheet correctly). It’s a plane, with a boy on top who is wearing a bright purple hat. The plane is decorated in blues and reds, much like the current MJN livery, and she’s struck by a wave of nostalgia.

It’s not helped by her attempts to move the old cabinet from its current location in the corner. As she maneuvers the cabinet away, she catches sight of a smudge on one side and a sudden flash of Arthur standing as tall as he possibly could in his socks, barely resisting the urge to slip and slide on the kitchen floor. The height marks are still there, each with a date and a measurement, until Arthur had inevitably grown too tall for it—though not too mature—and she’d been forced to stop.

Almost automatically, her fingers reach out to gently touch the markings before she catches herself and draws them away. _Silly goat,_ she thinks to herself, and forces her attention back to the papers on the floor.

It takes her a moment to get them shuffled into some semblance of order before she can sit in Douglas’s chair and start to sort them out again. The first few are routine flight plans and load sheets, her insurance documents, but then she comes to her divorce decree from her first marriage, paperclipped to the marriage license and certificate from the same. A familiar pang—dulled now by expectation and age—strikes her chest and she sets it quickly to one side. It’s not long before she finds a similar packet from her marriage to Gordon and sets that aside as well. And then she’s beset by memory upon memory: the business license for MJN, her certificate from university, a picture of Arthur as a child stuck to the back of her legal name change paperwork, a copy of Douglas’s employment contract, the deed to Gertie, a program from some god awful opera. Each is a memory unto itself; together they represent her life in a black and white, with the occasional splash of Arthur-provided color.

Unusually, she spends the majority of the day going through them, allowing herself a bit of sentimentality before the boys land. She makes sure everything’s tidied and put away before they arrive, and if a certain piece of metal with odd markings in permanent marker on it ends up in her boot, no one needs to know.


	35. Writing Workshop:  Beliefs

“No, Martin,” Douglas said, arms folded and face set into a petulant frown. “No, no, no, a hundred times no.”

Martin grinned, pushing the quiche closer to him. “Come on, Douglas,” he coaxed. “There are four hundred to get through. You could at least do your part and eat one.”  
But Douglas was unswayed. “There are mushrooms in them,” he complained. “And you know how I feel about…those things.”

“Yes.” Martin’s grin grew wider as he adopted his best Douglasean drawl. “Mushrooms are absolutely vile, and the eating of them is a world-wide conspiracy perpetrated at the highest levels of culinary power.”

“I do not sound like that.” He pushed the quiche back to Martin’s side of the table. “Though the rest is accurate.”   
“Fine then,” Martin shrugged. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” And he swallowed his last bite of quiche with panache.

~Seven months later~  
“Hi, dad,” Emily chirped as he came into the kitchen, scrubbing at his damp hair. “Dinner’s all ready.”

“Smells good,” he said and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “What’re we having?”

“A surprise.” She chivvied him along, holding out his chair and setting his place like a waiter at a fine restaurant. “Something good.”

He smiled at her and watched as she laid out two plates. “Well, I can’t wait. I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

Her face as she turned around was beaming. She set his plate in front of him with a flourish, then stood straight and announced, “Your meal today, specially prepared, will be….mushroom risotto!”


	36. Fandot Creativity:  Candle

They’re alone, the two of them, sharing a silent meal as the rain lashes against the window panes.

“Pass me the salt?” he asks quietly, meaning _When did we go wrong?_

“You’ve too much on your plate already,” she answers. _When you stopped being a partner and became a burden._

But she hands it across to him anyway. His fingers do not brush hers.

That night, as they sleep in their separate beds, the dishes soak in the sink, victims of marrow-deep frigidity that spreads across the room, and a single white candle on the table gutters, flares, brightens, dies.

 

 


	37. Fandot Creativity:  Secret Santa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas is a private man, especially when it comes to hiding his big, soft heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terribly happy with the end, but following the semi-strict rules of Creativity Night, I'm leaving it in place.

“So Douglas,” Arthur chirped as he practically bounded in to the flight deck, two mugs of something that smelled suspiciously like mulled grape juice in his hands. “You were going to tell us about your Christmas plans, before ATC called. What are they?”

“Yes, Douglas,” Martin said slyly, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “What are your plans for Christmas.”

The First Officer shrugged easily, managing to free the drinks from Arthur before he spilled them while untangling himself from the garland strung across the door. “Nothing much. A fantastic amount of sushi in front of a roaring fire, something soft playing, like an old Bing Crosby record, perhaps, and a cup of something warm and cheering.” A tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth. “And then on Boxing Day, Emily.”

Martin reached out and plucked the last bit of tinsel from Arthur’s jumper and grinned. “That’ll be a treat.”

“It will, indeed,” his First Officer said, and something in his face shifted that let Martin know he was thinking about previous Christmasses without her. Then, he blinked and his face smoothed out. “Aviation-related Christmas songs,” he challenged. “While Shepherds Watched their Flaps by Night.”  
And the rest of the flight was lost to laughter and merriment.  
—————-  
2 pm on Christmas Day found Douglas scurrying around his room, digging through boxes and throwing things haphazardly around. “Damn it,” he mumbled to himself. “I know I had it—“ The boot finally let itself be found and he emerged from under his bed with a triumphant cry. Packing the rest of his bag, he rushed down the stairs, already late.

He was moving so quickly, he didn’t notice the person standing outside his front door until he was running out of it, only narrowly managing to avoid a collision by skirting around him. Unfortunately, it meant he slipped on a patch of ice and went skidding into the small lamp post that decorated his front garden with an “oof.”

“Oh, God,” he heard, and then there were hands tugging him up by his bicep and setting him to rights on the pavement. “I’m so sorry, Douglas! I shouldn’t have been standing there.”

“No,” he agreed, before he thought about it, then looked down at Martin as he brushed off his jumper and let his brain catch up with his tongue. “Wait. What were you doing standing there? You weren’t meant to come over until dinner.”

“Finished early,” Martin shrugged, then looking around surreptitiously, leaned up and gave him a peck of a kiss. “Thought I’d come over. You don’t mind, do you?” And he sounded suddenly uncertain.

Douglas returned the kiss, considerably less concerned with the neighbors seeing and shifted, wincing a bit as bruised muscles protested. “I wouldn’t,” he said regretfully. “But I’m just on my way out.” 

Martin looked him over. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Come inside and let me look at it.”

“I can’t,” Douglas returned, already heading towards his Lexus. “No time.” Then, at the almost hurt look on Martin’s face, he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re welcome to come with me,” he finally said. “But I don’t want to hear a peep from you, understood?”

Martin only looked curious, but nodded, climbing into the passenger seat. He was silent during the trip, frowning when they pulled into the hospital parking lot, and Douglas got out with his bag. “Douglas! Surely you’re not hurt that badly! Let me patch you up. It’ll take hours here.”

Douglas shook Martin off and kept walking towards the doors with an easy familiarity. “I’m fine, Martin,” he said. “Promise.” And while he had the tiniest of limps, it did look true. 

The lady at reception gave Douglas a huge grin when he came up to her desk. “They’re waiting for you,” she said. “Third floor.”

“Thank you, Marcie,” Douglas smiled, and reached into his pocket for a small square of brownies. “Happy Christmas.” And without another word to Martin, he headed for the lifts. 

Martin’s worry only grew. “Pediatrics?” he said when he saw that it shared the third floor with records keeping and admin. “Has something happened to Emily? Oh, Douglas! Why didn’t you say?”

“Emily’s fine,” Douglas said, turning and kissing Martin’s cheek. “Everything’s fine. I promise.” 

Before Martin could say anything else, the lift dinged and they stepped out into the hall and straight to the nurse’s station. The man there smiled at them, eyes showing something like relief at the sight of Douglas. “Oh, god. I was worried,” he said to Douglas. “James isn’t here today, and so it would be my turn.”

“You know my word is good,” Douglas said and dug out a small bag of coffee from his pocket that he handed over. “Happy Christmas, Charlie.”  
Charlie just shook his head. “In character already, I love it. You know where the lockers are.”

“I do indeed,” Douglas said. “Martin, you’ll need to stay here a moment. I’ll be right back.” And before Martin could protest, he was gone.

Martin stood there for a long, awkward moment while Charlie went back to his charts. Just as he was beginning to lose patience and ask him to tell Douglas he’d wait in the canteen, the door to the locker room opened, and a man stepped out.

It was Santa Claus. Or, rather, Douglas Claus. Martin felt his affection for the man swell his heart three sizes bigger. Of course, he thought. He didn’t want you to see. 

Douglas played the part to the tee, wandering around the ward with a bag full of wrapped gifts and a cheerful chat for every child present. It took more than an hour to make it to everyone, and at the end, Douglas’s eyes, though still crinkled in merriment began to look something closer to exhausted, especially since his slight limp became more pronounced at the end.  
Martin was waiting for him with his bag, a mug of coffee, and a smile.

“Pleasure you see you, Santa,” he said with a grin, and handed it over. And if he wasn’t mistaken, a tiny flush appeared on the cheeks behind the white whiskers. “You don’t happen to have a present in there for a pilot who’s been very, very good, do you?”

“Alas,” Santa-cum-Douglas said. “I seem to have left that one in my workshop. If you’d like to follow me?” And he gestured towards the lift again, giving Charlie and the rest of the nurses a jaunty wave as he left. As soon as they were out of sight, he tugged off the whiskers, revealing a red rash where they had been and started shucking the jacket until he looked vaguely passable as a regular person.

“Not a word,” he grumbled good naturedly to Martin. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Not even if the word is nice?” Martin asked, and reached over to rest his hand over Douglas’s briefly. “Because I heard someone left something for a kind-hearted First Officer at a house I know. But if you’re not interested.”  
Douglas’s eyes lit up and he smiled, bending to kiss Martin, before wincing a bit at the bruise in his side. “As long as it’s a long, hot bath,” he said.

“That’ll do for a start,” Martin grinned, then, in a fit of mischief, turned, grabbed Douglas’s shirt and pushed him against the wall, kissing him passionately for an exquisite brief moment, sliding his thigh between Douglas’s before stepping back. Somehow, he managed to look perfectly presentable when the doors opened and he stepped out, calling over his shoulder, “Coming, Mr. Claus?”

Douglas watched him for a moment, then he grinned and hurried to catch up, eager to get home for his present.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he said. “And to us a good night?” And with a final kiss to Martin’s cheek, they stepped out into the cold December evening.


	38. Fandot Creativity:  Carols

Nearly midnight on the 24th of December. The cries of a child sobbing into a pillow drifted across to the hall to his parents. With a muffled sigh, his mother woke up and stumbled into his room, running a hand through tousled hair.

“What is it, boy-o?’ she asked softly, reaching down to pick him up from his bed. “What’s wrong?”

He said nothing, wrapping his arms and legs around her and burying his face in her neck with a sniffle. Quietly, she stroked his back and made her way downstairs to the sitting room, kicking on the switch to the socket just inside the door as she went. The lights on the tree sprung into life, splashing a riot of color on the walls, over framed pictures and certificates and a small piano tucked into the corner. Her son cried on.

With a soothing hum, she sat on the sofa, settling him in her lap, never once stopping the hand that smoothed along his sleep shirt. When his sobbing turned into sniffles, she pressed a kiss to his hair and started humming, soft and low. “In the Bleak Midwinter” was first, her perennial favorite, then other songs, the favorites of people in the family, ending with “Silent Night,” when her son settled and seemed to be drifting back to sleep. Carefully, she stretched out on the sofa, shifting him to lay on her chest, and twitched the rug crumpled on the floor over them. And there, in the soft December morning, bathed in the light of the tree, mother and child slept on.

\-------

It’s nearly three decades later, on another moonlit Christmas Eve. Another child’s cry pierces the night, higher pitched and sharper, but no different. This time, it’s the father who wakes up, drifting to his daughter’s room and picking her up.

“What’s wrong, Ems?” he coos, pulling her into a cuddle and smoothing his broad hand across her back. “What has you so upset, hmm?” 

She doesn’t answer, _can’t_ answer yet, hiccuping into his shoulder and fisting tiny hands into his shirt. Emily doesn’t seem to mind the smell of aeroplane off her father, just cuddles in and sniffles cries into his t-shirt. In some instinct, he heads down the hall and into the sitting room, kicking the switch into life as he goes and illuminating the Christmas tree. There’s no color here, just the soft white glow of fairy lights illuminating the silver and blue tree, but the feeling is the same. Carefully, with infinite slowness, he settles in the armchair, putting his feet up on the ottoman and stretching out. When her cries slow to sniffles, he starts to hum, some sense memory sparking in the back of his mind--old carols he’s not sung for years now, ones he barely remembers. And there, father and daughter sleep on, watched by the slight glimmer of a single star in the night sky.


	39. Fandot Creativity:  Snowed In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow is falling with no relief in sight, and Carolyn's called to Douglas's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is meant to be read as Carolyn/Douglas, but can be gen if you want or even previous C/D.

“Douglas,” Carolyn called as she shut the door behind her with her foot, unwrapping the scarf from around her neck and sliding off her coat. “This had better be an emergency. There’s already half a foot on the ground, and it’s only snowing harder.”

Silence was her only answer, then a muffled sound from down the hall. “Oh, Christ,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she headed that way. “If you risked my life for some stupid quasi-romantic gesture, I am going to strangle you, I swear.” Still no answer.

She was halted before she reached the bedroom by the unmistakable sound of someone being sick into a toilet. Without another word, she pushed the door open and found her errant First Officer on his knees, retching helplessly. His face was pinched and grey, hair stuck to his temples with sweat, and she could see even from where she was standing he was shivering violently in his jumper and pyjama bottoms.

When he’d finished, he spit into the toilet, then sat there listlessly, as if he didn’t even have the energy to lift his head. A pang of sympathy shot through her stomach that she quickly squelched, reaching to fill the glass from the sink with water. Carefully, she knelt beside him, holding it out while she took his temperature with her other hand. “You’re entirely too hot,” she admonished him, to which he said nothing. But he took the water and rinsed his mouth out, then sipped slowly. Her hand slipped through his hair, stopping briefly on the back of his neck to squeeze gently, then down his back. “Let’s get you up.”

It took some doing, he being nearly a foot taller and several stone heavier, but she managed. His bed was a mess, and she settled him on the footboard first, stripping down his sheets and duvet cover before making it again. By the time that had finished, he was lurching up and towards the hall again, face gone green. “Wait,” she said, and grabbed his arm, pushing him to sit down and snagging a nearby bin with her foot. She dumped out the detritus and got it under him just in time, though he seemed to have nothing left to bring up and just dry heaved for several minutes.

“Douglas,” she said, resting her hand on his head and petting gently, concerned that he’d made not a peep during the whole proceeding. “How long have you been sick for?”

He swallowed, leaning against her side and letting his eyes slip shut. “Hours,” he said, voice deep and hoarse. “This morning.”

“Did you take anything?”

He shook his head minutely, then seemed to find that a mistake, breathing in deliberately slowly. “Doesn’t stay down.”

She looked at him, the very picture of misery, and only barely resisted the urge to kiss the top of his head. “Well, you seem to be safe for the foreseeable future. Let’s get you into something more comfortable, hmmm?” Her concern skyrocketed when he had nothing to say to that, only sitting up vaugely straighter. WIthout a word, he let her strip off his jumper and the two layers of shirts underneath, and his sleep trousers and dressed again, trembling the whole time. She pushed him gently down onto the bed and covered him with the duvet, setting the bin within easy reach. “Try to sleep,” she said, stroking his hair from his temples, and then turned to see what medicines she could find in the house.

The view from the front window stopped her. Already, several more inches had fallen, and the tracks her car had made were obliterated. A swipe of her phone told her what she already suspected--no relief in sight, either from the snow or for Douglas. And then, without warning, the power went out. Her curse echoed against the tile floor of the hall, and she allowed herself one brief moment of frustration.

Then, by the light of her phone, she made her slow way to the kitchen, snagging a carrier bag and filling it with candles, matches, the kettle, tea, crackers, ginger nuts, and bottles of water before heading back into the bedroom. Standing before the door, she took one deep, steadying breath, and headed in to do what she did best. 

Manage.


	40. Fandot Creativity:  Celebration

Martin waved goodby from the doorway as Carolyn’s car pulled out of their drive.  If he looked carefully, he could just make out the gesticulations of an enthusiastic Arthur, energetically finishing the story he’d been telling as he walked outside.  Martin waited until he could see the taillights vanish around the corner before taking a deep breath of the crisp air, letting it out in a slow, steady stream that gathered in a cloud of condensation before vanishing into the moonlit night.

Making sure to lock the door behind him, he walked back down the hall into the warmth of the sitting room, gathering the mugs left on the tables and disappearing into the kitchen to wash them.  The radio was on low, something like jazz playing, but otherwise the house was quiet.  With a flick of the kettle, he swayed along, even as a vague unease crept up his spine.  Everything was still and hushed.

Martin shook it off, and made two mugs of tea quickly, carrying them through to the sitting room.  Carefully, he skirted around the sofa, holding one out to his partner.  But Douglas wasn’t paying attention, focused instead on the flames in the fireplace.  It took Martin calling his name softly to get him to blink back to awareness, looking up at him with something like embarrassment.

“Thank you,” he rumbled as he reached up to take the mugs, and scooted over a bit to give Martin more space.

Obligingly, Martin let the silence settle around them again, leaning against Douglas’s shoulder.  He finally ventured, “Good night?” 

“Mmmm?”  Douglas’s attention had wandered again.  “Oh.  Yes, very.  Always nice to see the Kanpp-Shappey-Shipwrights.”

“You like playing with fire, dont’ you?” Martin asked fondly.

Douglas shrugged and sipped at his tea.  “I like to dabble, yes.”  He didn’t sigh, but his presence seemed to sag a bit anyway.

Finally, Martin bit the bullet.  “Is something wrong?” he asked quietly, turning to better face Douglas.  “You seem a bit….”  He let the sentence trail off, unable to put into words the discontent radiating off Douglas in slow waves.

“Fine,” Douglas said, wrapping his hands more securely around his mug.  Then, a long silence, and he  _ did  _ sigh.  His gaze never drifted from the fire as he said, “Twenty-five years.”

It took Martin an embarrassingly long time to work out what that meant.  When the penny finally dropped he reached over and set his mug on the coffee table, then wrapped his arm around Douglas’s shoulders, giving him a sideways hug.  “Congratulations,” he said softly, kissing the grey hair at his temple.  

“Thank you,” Douglas said without any real emotion, even as he sagged ever so slightly against Martin’s chest. 

Martin felt a pang of worry spike through his chest.  “What’s wrong?” he asked.  “You should be proud.  Twenty-five years of sobriety isn’t easy.”

Douglas shrugged.  “Suppose.”  Another not-sigh.  “Should never have been a problem, though, should it?”

“Well,  _ I’m  _ proud of you, even if you’re not,” Martin said firmly, reaching out to take Douglas’s mug and set it beside his own.  Carefully, he shifted so he was at the far end of the sofa, tugging Douglas gently until he spread out with his head in Martin’s lap.  Idle fingers swept through his hair, the nape of his neck, the curls around his ear.  He curled over so he could murmur in Douglas’s ear.  “You’re a great man, Douglas Richardson, but that’s all you are--a man.  That's all anyone expects you to be.  You should be as kind to yourself as you are to us sometime.”

But Douglas didn’t answer, and it was clear Martin’s words weren’t really much use, so Martin sat back up and stopped talking, letting the slow smooth sweep of his fingers do the talking.   _ I’m here, I chose you, I love you, you’re mine.  Always. _


	41. Fandot Creativity:  Hats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a proper drabble, so probably wont' be continued.

It happened so quickly, Martin wasn’t even sure what was going on until it was over. Douglas had been quiet all day, pale and clammy, but sworn that morning he was fit to fly, and Carolyn hadn’t argued--had, in fact, demanded it. But when he’d fallen to the tarmac _Carolyn_ called for the paramedics, got them through customs. In the end, Captain Crieff hadn’t been much use at all.

And so she left with their FO, who still hadn’t regained consciousness, leaving Martin alone in a dark room far from home, with an unadorned pilots hat between his shaking hands.


	42. Creativity Night:  board games/scissors

Breakfast at the Richardson table was a subdued affair.  Miriam gave Douglas a  _ look _ over Emily’s head as if to say,  _ What is her problem? _

 

Douglas shrugged, then focused his attention back on his daughter.  “Hey, Ems,” he said gently, poking at her arm.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” she said moodily, prodding her soggy cereal with her spoon.  “I’m fine.”  Another spoonful, then she pushed back from the table.  “May I go please?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, she picked up her dishes and tidied them away quickly and was gone.

 

Miriam sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.  “I don’t have time for this today,” she said.  “The Kensuke account is coming in at 9, and I  _ can’t  _ be late.”  

 

Douglas rose, putting his own dishes in the sink before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her nose.  “Go on then,” he said.  “I’ll take care of things.”

 

It took very little convincing on his part for her to go, and it wasn’t long before the house was settling into silence again.  When she was gone, Douglas padded down the hall and into Emily’s room, frowning when he didn’t see her.  Then he noticed the tail of a blanket sticking out from under the bed, and knelt down to investigate.

 

There, huddled in a nest of blankets and pillows was Emily.

 

“Hullo,” he said gently.  “Comfortable?”

 

She nodded at him with wide brown eyes, but said nothing.

 

“Do you need anything?”

 

A shake of the head.  

 

He hesitated.  “I’d ask to join you, but I don’t think I’d fit under there.”

 

She assessed him, and the corners of her eyes crinkled in the tiniest of smiles.

 

“What about a nest in my bed?” he asked.  “Then we could both fit.  And I have more pillows!”

 

Another long pause, then she squirmed out, her bedding gathered in her arms.  The nest they made was big and deep, and Emily crawled into his lap immediately, clinging.

 

“What’s wrong, Ems?” he asked gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.  Then, he remembered the conversation he’d overheard between her and Miriam that morning.  “Is it about the haircut?”

 

She nodded, cheek scraping against his shirt.

 

“I see.”  He pressed another idle kiss to her head, hand sweeping up and down her spine, and thought for a moment.  Then, quietly, “Which part is the scariest?”

 

Emily’s voice was soft and low, and she curled even more tightly around him.  “The cutters.”

 

“The cutters?   _ Oh _ .  The  _ scissors _ .”  He nodded.  “Yes, I can see why those would be very scary.  What if I had a way to make them less scary?”

 

She peeked up at him through her fringe, and her automatic trust in him warmed his heart.

 

“What if I went first?’ he said, and then, in a fit of wanting to make everything right for his daughter.  “What if I let you use the scissors on me, first?”

 

Another long pause, then she nodded.

 

“Excellent,” he grinned, and swept her up in his arms, setting her on the floor.  “Shoes, then, Ems.  And your coat.”  And he bent and whispered, “And if you’re very,  _ very _ good, we’ll play Snakes and Ladders after.”

 

She didn’t quite smile, but her shoulders were a little less hunched over, and she swung his hand on the way to the car.

 

Nearly two hours later, after haircuts, lunch, and ice cream, the two of them were lying on the floor, snuggled up together and playing the promised board game--Emily with a very neat fringe and a grown up plait and Douglas with a lopsided cut that caught him no end of grief at the airfield.

  
Not that he minded.  It was worth it for his girl.


	43. Creativity Night:  Endless

By the time he goes home, he knows he’ll have made his last, inexcusable error. This is it, the end _Mr. and Mrs._ Richardson...again. The _perfectum_ of his _trium_ , and the end of any seedling of hope he may have coaxed into life after the long barrenness of his post-Air England depression. And all because he cannot now close his eyes to what he’s been told.

The frost of the argument settles around them, the door slams behind him, and he’s gone, heedless, coatless, mindless into the endless night of late winter and the misery of being alone.

Again.


	44. Creativity Night:  Laundry

_ Laundry needs doing _ , Douglas thinks slowly, like walking through treacle.   _ And dishes.  Does the water even turn on?   
_

Not that it matters, since he’s not managed to consolidate his thoughts into any semblance of movement or action in three days.  His limbs are leaden, but from what he cannot say.   _ Will not _ , really, because he knows what it is that causes this, always has done.

  
So instead he spends an eternity working up the energy to turn over in bed, pull the duvet over his ears, and do his damndest to ignore the black dog sitting heavy in his chest.


	45. Creativity Night:  Orange and helpless

“It was orange paint,” Miriam tells him over the phone, “So of course it’s not coming out.”

Douglas hesitates, on uncertain ground. “Does she want me to buy her another? Or...”

She scoffs at him, as he should have known she would. “Of course not. What that help?”

He has to admit he doesn’t know. But what else can he do? It’s not like he’s available for cuddles and reassuring words. Assuming she’d want them from a man she only barely knows as her father.

And so he sits, 200 miles and four years away from his youngest daughter. Useless.


	46. Fandot Creativity:  Cage

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the darkness is smothering and her arms wrapped around him are more cage than comfort, he imagines what was, what might have been.  Of different arms, broader hands, the scrape of stubble in the morning.  Of the smell of a cologne that’s not his own.  Of the unimaginable freedom of being able to say “This is who I am, and you are who I love, the rest of the world be damned.”

But he’s already the disappointing son, and the weight of expectation sits heavy on his shoulders.  Not that they’ve ever said it aloud, but he can hear it all the same.  “If you’re not going to be a doctor, Dougie, at least…”

So he lies there, lies nearly _everywhere_ , and hears his heart sing of freedom.


	47. Fandot Creativity:  Below

When she reaches across and lays her hand on his wrist, he knows where he’ll be spending the night.  His dark eyes sparkle even as grow turn soft and knowing, and he turns his wrist so her fingers are resting over his pulse.  From the corner of his eye, he can see the rest of the Air England boys exchange knowing glances and smirks.  The warmth of success, of pride, of _arrogance_ threads through his blood and he moves a little closer.

And above all, ignores the tiny voice below his heart that doesn’t want any of this at all.


End file.
